


The Exile's Cycle

by CReed



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: After death, Angst, F/M, character death sort of, it's not a death fic!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:10:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CReed/pseuds/CReed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She fell, she rose. She soared the highest any hero had in the last 400 years. And she chose to fall once more. A three-part cycle of Princess Aeducan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Made of Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! I am back again with some shorts. I really don't know how long these will be, bordering on stream-of-consciousness blurbs to a proper short story. This first one is a bit sad. Honestly, I don't like writing death fiction but this idea keeps bugging me, and it does get better, depending on how you look at it. Keep in mind this is still technically not character death (in this one), so it's not too bad. :D Well, I have babbled long enough. If you're curious, please stick around at the bottom of the page for an author's note.
> 
> **Final note:** As always please enjoy, dear readers.

**Made of Stone**

**© Coco Reed**

“Why are you acting this way? Surely you cannot be so selfish, so stupid. Did I completely misjudge you?” Morrigan stood with her back to the fireplace, slender hands clenched into white-knuckled fists as she looked at the only other person in the room.

Bilchka Aeducan took her time pulling off her boots as she sat on the foot of the large human-size bed. She had plenty of practice back when she was princess in ignoring those chastising her for her choices. Oddly enough, as a Grey Warden she only got better at it. With the fine drake scale boots lain reverently aside, her toes were free to wriggle. She frowned as she looked at her feet, then her legs, now noticing her arms. Every inch of her was still so pale, as if the sun could not change what the Stone made.

Finally she spoke as she massaged her sore calf muscles, though she did not look up from her task. “I cannot do what you ask of me, Morrigan.”

“This will spare you!”

Morrigan sucked in a steadying breath. Hardly did she ever lose her true patience, especially with Bilchka. She was sure the Warden would understand, even if her feelings would be compromised. Was that what this was about? Would she really throw her life away? For him? She watched Bilchka, the tense way she held herself and the slight tremble her jaw would give away now and then. Morrigan's head jerked sharply, as if physically disregarding her earlier thought. No, this was not something so pathetic and she could not help but feel an odd ache pulse through her heart.

A brittle laugh clawed its way out of her. “As I had my own plan so did you, I see. This is not about jealousy, or some sense of possessiveness.” Her keen, golden eyes glinted in the darkness as she looked at the resolve in that little form. “You have planned on not surviving the archdemon. Perhaps from the beginning.”

Surprisingly a rage she never knew engulfed her and she almost snarled, feeling the wolf within begging to be free. “Has all this been a game? The attentive listening, the kindness, the generosity, the gifts? The friendship? The sweet words whispered to that imbecile! The drunk will bow knee to you! The giant holds you above womankind! The twittering lunatic from the chantry would easily slide into your bed as easily as she slides her daggers into your enemies' backs! The Antivan lech is wrapped around your finger! The cowed old hag would coddle you if allowed! A golem does your bidding of its own free will! And I am just another one of your pets,” she spat. Why did this matter? She could not say, but even with a mother like Flemeth, Morrigan never felt so betrayed. “Has all this been a lie?”

The look in Bilchka's eyes when she finally lifted her gaze nearly staggered her. There was no dishonesty or anger, just layer upon layer of sadness and pain. Her blue eyes glistened but not a tear fell. When she rose from the bed and approached, her steps were steady and sure. Morrigan wanted to pull away when hands took her own up in a gentle hold, but she could not. This woman was the only person she had ever called friend. Helpless against her. Just like all the others.

“I have never lived with more honesty, more genuine delight, since this started. Yes, I have planned since Lothering, I think, to die in the final battle of the Blight. In deciding this, I vowed to make the most of my time left. Everything I have done was with my truest intentions. You do not have to believe me, Morrigan. I probably would not, if in your place. I suppose you could talk to Alistair, if you wish.”

Morrigan snorted. “He would never agree. I do not possess your silver tongue, little fox.” She pulled her hands away and took a step back. “Do you truly not see what you will leave behind?”

“Life, I suppose. That is all one ever does when dying.” Bilchka turned to tinker with a decanter and goblet set out for her. “I told you of my past, Morrigan, and then you heard the rest when I went back to Orzammar. You know what it is I lost. It was not the throne, or the title of Princess. Even so, if not for the Blight, I would be in the Deep Roads, bones picked clean in a forgotten cave.”

“You have gained much since then, no matter the circumstances that brought you here.”

“True,” Bilchka shrugged and took a sip of her drink. “You and I know that whatever gains we make in life mean nothing over time. I have learned that nothing lasts, but then nothing ever truly ends. So, I am not afraid to face my fate.”

“Is it because of the offer Idiot made?”

Bilchka breathed a small laugh, shaking her head as she put the still full goblet down. “No. Do not feel insulted for me, Morrigan. He is still so new to this game and just wanted to find a way to keep his court happy whilst still have something for himself.”

“And turning you into his whore is supposed to endear him to me?”

“Technically I would not be getting paid...”

Morrigan crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes, a stance that intimidated most. “Do not try and be cute with me.” Some of her anger melted away. “Now I know why you agreed. You never intended to make good on it.” For a split second she did feel bad for Alistair.

“I cannot.” Pain suddenly thickened her voice but she swallowed it away. “I would love to stay by his side, in his castle, but that is a dream. A cruel nightmare and I will not put us through that. The truth is, Morrigan, I am tired. I am done. I am ready. You all will be fine, even Alistair.” She turned to her, a smile on her face. “I do not know if I will return to the Stone or wander into your Fade, but I am ready for that journey – that one last adventure. I cannot do this anymore. I won't. This is the one time I will be selfish.”

Morrigan shook her head, stopping with her hand on the balcony door latch and turned to her once more. “This is your final decision? Know that, if it is, this is where our path together ends. I will not be there to fight. 'Tis pointless.”

Being a Daughter of Flemeth, Morrigan had seen many things in her life. She knew secrets most could not even imagine. As young as a small child she became privy to the earth's secrets. Everything was connected, everything had a name and a purpose. She was quite familiar with the elements. As she stood there, she felt she came face-to-face with Earth itself. Bilchka came close once again but did not touch her. Her head nodded a small bow and when she looked up once more, a sturdy resolve shone in her eyes. Unmovable as a mountain. Hard as stone.

“Then this is farewell, Morrigan. I am sorry I could not do this last thing for you, my friend.”

“Farewell. I feel we will cross paths again. Perhaps in another lifetime.”

The room filled with a swirling grey mist and Bilchka found herself alone in the room.

Fin


	2. Like Grasping Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A change in perspective. This came out nicely. I dig that Alistair sort of channels Henry VIII here...

**Like Grasping Smoke**

_He still loved her._

Twenty-eight years ago the Blight ended. If Fortune favored him perhaps he only had two more years to go. Then this joke would be over.

_He loved her still and they all had been wrong. Grossly wrong._

When this started, their story, he could admit that he was surprised at how normal she appeared. The only dwarves he ever saw were burly little powerhouses that smelled like they bathed in ale, but could take down men and creatures three times their size. He assumed they all were like that. Or maybe that was just the kind of thrill-seeking dwarven stallion that sought rank in the Grey. What wandered up to him at Ostagar was no walking brewery, nor some stubby hag from the mountain caves. She was so petite. Curvier than most noble women he met, but perfectly proportioned. Maker, the top of her head only came to the middle of his sternum, and she was supposed to take on ogres and hurlocks? He couldn't help chuckling at the memory. Had he said that to her that first day, he truly would have been on his back in less than a second with the heel of her boot against his windpipe.

_But the little rogue proved herself, again and again, and in so doing stole his heart._

Even with the pain and loss, on both their sides, they joked and talked. Sometimes the teasing became the more flirtatious kind. Once, after she gave them all a few bits and baubles that she found on the journey he gave his own gift. Even now he could blush. Not because he was embarrassed but because he had been such a sentimental fool. Yet, after more innuendo and flirting, a genuine smile spread across her lips and he knew his sentiment finally paid off and she wholeheartedly accepted the single red rose. In that moment her smile reached her eyes, something it didn't do often.

_And it would not again, not for some time. Not when they were heading to Orzammar._

The high iron doors and stone walls seemed to suck the joy and vibrancy out of her. It would have taken an idiot, or one not familiar with the ways of the more elite citizens around Ferelden, to not know she came from noble standing. The way she moved, her speech, her education and weapon training – all spoke of pure-bred. He wanted to know, but since he had his own secrets about such things he let her keep hers.

A princess? Even Duncan never mentioned that small detail! What could have possibly went so wrong that a beloved child of the throne was now a nameless, title-less Grey Warden? He ached to know!

Fortunately, or not so much, he found out soon enough.

The way they all spoke to her... It was not just him that took offense. More often than not he saw the way Morrigan would glare, hands twitching to call forth a storm, or Zevran caress his dagger at the acidic words the citizens of Orzammar spewed at her. Murderer. Exile. The Exiled. Kinslayer. All these things and more they called her and she took it. With more terrifying beauty and grace than he had ever seen she took those insults as a swan takes raindrops upon its back, and did the bidding of her baby brother. Those weeks in the mountain kingdom, truly an Underworld, were some of the darkest times in their journey. Never was she tested more. When she bled an ocean, seen and heard such nightmarish things no one should ever witness, she came back with a crown. King Bhelen sent her away, an army promised and a personal gift of her murdered brother's weapon. Never had he wanted to run another man through the way he wanted then.

Coming out of the dark furnace of the dwarven kingdom, back under the clear sky, he realized he loved her.

_But such a thing matters little._

They shared stories, pain, battle and finally their bodies. Back then he needed guidance in those ways and she eagerly gave it. Never mocking or impatient. Sometimes he wished, more so in these years, that he could go back with what he knew now and perhaps give her even an iota of what he felt for her with their coupling. Even when his lineage was revealed he was the same man to her and he adored her more. However, no matter the battles they won, allies they gained or the time they stole together, there was always a deep melancholy in her eyes. Looking back, he had a feeling she knew what was to come.

_He never wanted to hurt her._

Learning the hard way that life was tough, he still did not want to tarnish or lose what they had. Once, he innocently asked his one-time guardian if, now that her title was restored, King Bhelen would consider giving his sister away in a political marriage. Eamon outright laughed. These things simply were not done. Especially between a dwarf and a human. The best he could do, and he hated himself for it to this day, was offer her paramour. Paramour or nothing at all. Like everything else, she took his ultimatum in stride. The smile was blinding but there was nothing in her eyes.

Eamon and the others told him the feelings would pass. Soon he would see what was once held from him. Power and prestige. He could have any woman. And he would. With the Blight taken care of and the mantle of king taken up, he would hopefully be busy with restoring the kingdom, marrying and having children. The Grey Warden would be a distant memory. A part of his life over with. Men do strange things in the heat of battle, after a brush with death or when stock is not varied. He could have vomited. They all thought she was a mercy fuck.

_And then, nothing..._

He didn't remember much of that night. The battles leading up and the archdemon himself were wiped from his memory. What he did remember, and it would flash through his mind even now, was holding her. His beautiful princess. Never had she felt so small in his arms. Always so pale, she seemed made of unblemished marble or perhaps porcelain. She was just as cold. It was as if Urthemiel had stolen her warmth as soon as he passed through her, into her. Like a pale, dirty, bloodied doll she lay with a sword barely grasped in her hand.

_Time went on, whether he wished it or not._

Practically all of Eamon's assumptions proved wrong. Yes, he was busy with politics and rebuilding, but he never forgot her. There had been plenty of women but he doubted Eamon's vision was the long procession of wives that filled his rule. He married, he fucked and after a few years of no pregnancy he allowed Eamon and the others to parade another nobleman's daughter in front of him at court, much to the dismay of his current wife.

Then, seemingly a big karmic middle finger to his advisers, a child was created, but not from the womb of any genteel Lady of his court.

One drunken night he found himself stumbling down Memory Lane, that led right into The Pearl. She took his breath away. No older than his princess when their journey began and, Maker, she looked enough like her that he would have paid forty sovereigns instead of forty silver for just one night. It had not been one night, though. Recently from Orzammar, fallen on hard times but still optimistic, his mistress had not yet been hardened by the city. He kept it that way. Finally, he had his paramour. Never asking for much, he showered her with gifts and luxury, a place in the palace. In return he could pretend, sometimes in the throes of passion blatantly so, and she gave him the greatest gift a woman could bestow upon a man, especially a king.

His son had his face, the undeniable traces of the Theirin line, but the blue-green eyes and shining corn silk hair of his mother. Yet another thing he could secretly pretend was of his princess. If only the eyes were more blue instead of green... His brave, pretty paramour was a strong woman, as were all of dwarven stock, but she did not survive the pregnancy. Perhaps it was the taint. At the end of the twenty-hour labor she barely had time to smile at him, stroke the babe at her breast, before succumbing to her final sleep. Now, he could not recall her name most days.

Conall was a symbol for so many things. His son would be the strength, the change, that he could never be. With the years falling away, he prepared him for what was to come, what he would need to do. Still so young, but already a capable prince. As time went by he found he did not need to worry his son would be a puppet. It gave him time to prepare for other things, and listen to the singing that slowly grew louder.

_Now the Song is sung by her._

Dreaming of his beloved was a nightmare of its own. Still so lovely. Every night he dreamed and every night he failed her in some way. Sometimes he let her be carried away to the tower. Other times he stabbed her in the heart with Duncan's dagger after making love. More often than not though he would be too late, watching as she disappeared into the gory maw of Urthemiel, their bloody hands slipping free of one another as they tried to hold on. He would awake with the scent of her on his skin, her taste on his lips.

Pretty hair... Pretty eyes... Pretty princess that haunted and teased, slipped through his fingers like incense smoke...

Was this what madness was? Soon he would be ranting and raving like Ruck, searching the Deep Roads for his shiny princess. Thoughts like that made the Song trill louder. It vibrated down inside him, taking his breath away, tempting him to drop what he was doing and run for Orzammar. Sweet, sweet music. Would she be dancing to it in the dark, waiting for him to take her hand and fall into step?

Alistair rolled over in his large bed, blessedly empty these past thirteen years after he fulfilled his “duty,” and stared at the shadows flickering on the wall. Dawn was a long way off. His heart didn't even race any more after he woke from nightmares. Something like relief nudged his tired mind and a little bit of hope warmed his frozen heart.

“I am coming home, Bilchka. Soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's note:** Just so you know, "Conall" is Irish for "strong wolf." I went with an Irish name since Alistair is as well. That's just a fun fact for you.


	3. Wake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! This is the end of this cycle. Hope everyone enjoyed the tale. If you are interested, please stick around for the author's note at the bottom.
> 
>  **Final note:** As always please enjoy, dear readers.

**Wake**

A scream jolted him to consciousness, but it seemed an echo. Already it was fading away. Why would there be screaming? Had there been a battle? Someone stormed the castle? The apathy at such a thought was astounding. Alistair sat up from his sprawled position on the ground, moist grass tickling his palms as he looked around. The aches and pains from fighting never came and he hummed in thought as he looked down at his form.

Not a scratch. Not a speck of dirt. His tight black velvet trousers were crisp and new, the white silk of his tunic clean and unblemished. His black boots weren't even scuffed. He pushed himself off the ground, dusting the soil from his palms. It was then he noticed his hands.

Alistair should have been surprised, perhaps even disturbed, but he inspected them with distant fascination. They were the hands of a man in his twenties. Once he had hands like these. Strong and sure, not shaking with age and taint. At that thought he felt his face. The tender patches where Blight bruises were showing did not meet his touch, nor were there lines from the years of his reign as king. Fumbling with the laces of his shirt he gasped and stared down at the chiseled chest and abs of a youthful stranger. The boils and bruises from the taint were gone, only golden skin lay before his eyes.

The sound of water broke his stare and he went in search of the source, not even bothering to tighten his shirt laces.

Everything was green and bright. Life burst from everywhere. The scent of rain hung in the cool air and he breathed deep. So long he had only the stale air and the darkness. Hadn't he? Alistair tried to remember what it was he had been doing before he woke. This was all so strange. There came a tinkling noise and further down the path he was met with bits of crystal and glass hanging from the blooming trees. On his way past, his reflection caught his eye in one of the swaying baubles and he had to lean on a tree in fear of fainting away. Gathering his courage he looked once more.

He could have been back at the chantry he was such a baby-faced young man. It had been a long time ago, indeed, that he looked like this. What was terrifying and amazing were his eyes. Warm and golden, like a fine ale.

Now he remembered.

He left Ferelden the day he woke and found not his hazel eyes staring back at him in a mirror, but the empty dead grey of those Succumbing. His Calling came. Flashes of memory burst across his mind, shaking him to his center.

Yes. There had been a battle. A great battle no one would remember or write down because it happened deep beneath the earth. Between one man and a legion of darkspawn. After weeks of fighting and exploring he came across yet another forgotten thaig. Suddenly there was an endless swarm. Atop a crumbled ruin he was overcome. Falling to a twisted blade after being crushed by an ogre alpha. The Bastard King, left to rot in a dark tunnel.

Alistair looked about, a sob hiccuping out of him. So this was the Fade where the dead passed. A disturbing happiness washed over him. That was it then. It was finished. He laughed, shaking his head as he gathered his emotions. No darkspawn, no court, no wives – and from the looks of it – no demons. Ever again.

His name carried on the sweet breeze and he turned, eyes narrowing in an attempt to make out the form beyond a sunny meadow. Had he a heart it would have stopped. He found himself running, scrambling and nearly falling over the tall grasses and flowers. The meadow gave way to bushes and vines, choked with dark red roses. With a final burst of speed he barreled into her, gripping beneath her arms and lifting her high into the air. Spinning, he lost his balance and fell to his knees. There was no pain. There was nothing but pure elation. If she demanded it he could fly, or at the very least dance the Remigold in a dress. Her laughter was cut short as he pressed her to him in a crushing hug. Could it be? After all this time, could this finally be happening?

He pulled far enough away to get a good look at her. Smoothing fair hair from her face, he could not help sobbing as those blue eyes focused on him. Here she was. Pretty as a painting. Belatedly he noticed, like him, she was not garbed in armor. Soft, plush velvet a shade or two lighter than the roses surrounding them. Had he ever seen her in a dress? Not even when Bhelen ordered her to the palace after his coronation did she wear such finery. His hands slid down her sides to rest on her hips, guiding her to straddle his thighs. So many things he wanted to do and say.

"Bilchka." Only in the darkest hours of the night did he say her name anymore. It was odd and uplifting to actually be addressing the owner of the name that haunted him for thirty-two years.

"Yes, love?"

He laughed, nuzzling her soft cheek. Everything was just as he remembered. The scent of her, the warmth, the yielding softness beneath his eager hands. How he had missed that voice! Like steam swirling off of hot stone. It never failed to make heat blossom in his gut or his tongue feel heavy and useless. With effort he lifted his face from her neck and could not stop the tears in his eyes nor the tremor in his voice.

"Why did you go without me?" Though there were thousands of words he wanted to say, these slipped out first without his control.

Bilchka's smile faded and she cupped his face, smoothing his tears away with her thumbs. "Forgive me. You know why." He shook his head, denying even now and she pulled him back to look at her. "They all were not ready for us, for what we represent. Also, I would do it again and again if it meant you living on."

"You call that living?" His laugh was cruel and he pulled her closer, pressing searching fingers into the small of her back. "Had I known you would be here, I would have thrown myself from the top of Fort Drakon the second they pried you from my arms." There was hurt and shock in her eyes, lush mouth opening but he didn't give her a chance to speak. "Besides, it happened no matter what they all wanted. A poor substitute for you, but it did happened." Oddly enough, Bilchka smiled at the mention of his "duty to the throne" and surprised him even more when she smoothed the frown lines between his eyes.

"Yes, it did. You picked a good woman – strong and kind. Now you leave a charming young man behind to take up your mantle. He will do even more than what his father accomplished."

He snatched her hand up from where it traced along his brow, kissing her palm and fingers. She tried to pull away.

"Alistair–"

"He should have been yours."

"No, my love." She cupped his cheek and a deep longing filled her eyes. "That is one thing I would never have been able to give you."

"I don't believe that." His hand drifted to her abdomen, pressing, and he smiled as she leaned into the touch. "If they had left us alone, let me do what I bloody well wanted, I know I would have planted my seed within you." She shivered as he nuzzled her cheek before kissing her earlobe, breath hot and tickling. That was always one of her most sensitive places. It was nice to see that even in this strange world some things didn't change. "It might have taken me months or years, Bilchka, but I know you would have carried my child. I feel it."

Her lips were plump and pliant, tasting of sugar-sprinkled strawberries. So warm and sweet. His hands went to her hair, to the back of her head. It wasn't gentle caresses but he didn't care and he didn't stop. The sounds of surprise she made vibrated against his mouth and he pushed harder, coaxing her tongue out to play with his. After all the women he had it was not difficult to move one hand to her back and, with the skills of an expert, undo the laces of her dress.

Bilchka broke their kiss, hands planted on his chest to gain some space. "Alistair, wait..." She clenched her fists, grabbing his shirt, as he kissed along the creamy mound of her shoulder that escaped the confining velvet.

"I can't. I won't."

"But, darling," even as she protested her hand went to the back of his head, keeping him in place as he returned to kiss her neck. "We have eternity."

"Yes, and I already went an eternity without you." He could feel the fight going out of her with every kiss and when he slid his hands along her legs beneath the skirt that was slowly becoming bunched around her thighs. "Let me look at you, love. Let me taste and feel you."

She laughed, kissing his cheek. "I see you have learned to get your way."

"Of course. It is somewhat a blessing you didn't see what I became," he muttered into her shoulder.

"I will never fault you for that. Any of it." No other words came as she yelped. Her dress was swept up and off, flung against a nearby rosebush, and she found herself on her back with the late great King of Ferelden looming over her. "Such a hurry, your Majesty. Are you afraid we will disappear?"

"Yes." Sorrow and fear filled his eyes. Shaking fingers traced along her face and into her hair. "Or maybe I am just afraid you will. I don't know how you are here, or where it is that makes me, but before you slip from me again, before I lose you, I will have you once more. I can't risk it."

His princess smiled, allowing him to touch and taste. Falling into her arms and settling once more into her blessed warmth, he felt he was home.

Some time later he found himself on the ground with her on top of him, snug in his hold with crushed petals all around them. The thick scent of roses permeated the air and clung to her. His hand drifted along the arm that lay limp along his waist and he marveled at the softness. A considerate frown came over him and he shifted so he could pull her closer.

"How is it that I was even able to take you? It's not as if we're dreaming, with...fleshy bodies...waiting behind." He shivered as a hand slid firmly up his chest to grip his shoulder, leaving goosebumps along the way. However, the blonde head resting on him didn't move.

"Now you want to talk."

The sated, teasing voice was muffled against his skin and he laughed and couldn't help giving a playful swat to the glorious hindquarters he missed all these years. "Priorities, love. Never let it be said I am not a man who has his priorities in order."

Bilchka propped her chin in her palms, smiling at the look he gave her as her elbows poked his chest. "The answer is simple, really. We are not in the part of the Fade where the living roam. You know how whenever we went to places where the Veil was thin or torn, there were spirits that looked like faint outlines of people and creatures? Or when we were sucked into the Fade most spirits looked like mist?"

"Yes?"

"Well, that is what we would look like to any living creature. We are the mist now, Alistair. We are on the other side. The living look like spirits to us, as well."

"But I can touch you just find, my Lady." He couldn't help giving her pert assets a squeeze instead of a swat this time. The movement forced her up and straddling his hips. Was that a squeal? "Oh, my word. Can spirits blush? Why, Princess Aeducan, I do believe you are glowing red!"

He laughed at the mock-scandalized look on her face, chuckling even further at the slap to his chest. Her eyes darkened, from Antivan ocean water to darkest sapphire, and suddenly he didn't feel like laughing. Even after all these years, with all the women he sampled, his breath hitched when she leaned down. When her chest brushed his and she slid her hands in his hair he felt like the chantry boy Duncan rescued – not the seasoned king that left the mortal realm in his fifties!

"Alistair," she purred, "Has no one ever warned you not to poke the bronto in the cave?" Her lips hovered over his and she smiled at how his parted as if to accept a kiss. "Are you sure you want to go down that Deep Road, my love?" They both smiled, bordering on wolfish, when he grabbed her hips to keep her in place.

"I can handle you now." Maker, he nearly whimpered in disappointment when she sat up.

"Of that I have no doubt. However, you are distracting me. To answer your question, though I am sure you were not really looking for answers: yes, I suppose spirits can blush. We are solid and real, but on this side of the Fade only. It is like looking in a mirror. Mortals will see us as shades, as we will see them, even though we stand side-by-side. It depends on which side you happen to be on that effects how you perceive things."

"You know an awful lot about the Fade for a dwarf."

She laughed. "Well I have been here a while. One picks these sorts of things up."

"And did you have guidance?" _Were you alone this whole time?_ He ached to know but couldn't bear what the answer might be.

Bilchka seemed to understand his unspoken question and smiled, grabbing his hands to lace their fingers together. "Yes. I was not afraid, not really, when I came here. There were others waiting for me, to help me with my case of death."

"You have friends, do you? And you weren't afraid they were desire demons or the like?" He didn't want to admit the fact that even now he was terrified this was a dream, something he wanted but could never have without it being a glamour.

"Demons cannot tread here, Alistair. Fear not. Also, they need hosts. You and I...we no longer possess what a demon needs to thrive."

"True. Very true." It was odd, knowing he was dead.

"When I first came here I was so confused. The battle – it all happened so fast right there at the end. One moment He was staggered and the next I was plunging a blade into His brain. I...There was no pain. There was nothing but blinding light. I knew I was in the Fade when my vision cleared and searched desperately for a weapon. Spirits came to me then. They told me to have no fear, for I had paid my dues. My fighting days were over."

"These spirits taught you about the Fade?"

"Yes. I have kept company this whole time with the likes of Hope and Peace. While waiting, I learned to navigate this realm, shape it into what I wanted. Like a dream. I hope you like it, my love. I wanted it to be perfect for when you finally passed."

"But how? You are of the Stone." He slid his hands up and down her sides, needing the comforting touch just as much as she.

"Perhaps it was my reward, being granted the chance of seeing you again. Or maybe it was my time in the Fade, exposure to it, that drew my spirit here instead of the Stone."

"You never sought a solid answer?"

"I never cared to. I was free, free to dream and wait, after so much sacrifice. It meant being with you after you completed your Calling. Answers matter little to me when I consider that."

Alistair brought her close, rolling over so he covered her with his frame. How could he still feel his heart beat when it had stopped long before? He had to keep reminding himself that he was dead, a ghost, and yet he never felt more alive than he did now. Her arms went around him, soft, strong hands kneading his back and shoulders. A breath shuddered out of him and he pressed closer.

"After all this time, a lifetime, this is right. This is as it should be. Finally." The only agreement she gave was a contented sigh and kiss to his ear. He pulled away to look at her, taking her in as if for the first time. "Our souls truly are entwined." Death could not even sever what so many mortals had tried to.

There came a humming noise, soon it vibrated within him. The feeling was not unpleasant. It somewhat reminded him of the Song, without the twisted corruption that rippled just beneath. He looked up and in the distance he saw a door. It did not glow purple like other Fade doors he came upon. Alistair found himself standing, leaving the embrace of his princess to investigate. It was closer than it once appeared. Now he could see it was framed in gold and silver, jeweled flowers blooming here and there within the metal shaped like branches. A hazy shimmer wafted about the door and he had an urge to grasp the gem-like handle and walk through.

A delicate hand slid into his and he looked to see Bilchka smiling up at him.

"In all the time I have been here, in all my wanderings, I have not yet ventured through that."

"Why not?" How did she resist? It was damn-near pulling him!

"I will not go without you."

"What's through it?" He gripped her hand tighter.

"Beyond. Whatever waits for spirits past the Fade."

"Past the Fade?" Alistair stepped closer, tracing the carvings in the ancient wood. The handle was pleasantly cool and fit perfectly in his grip. Turning, he smiled and held out his other hand. "Shall we go then?"

This time, he lead her into their next adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's note:** Depending on how you look at it, this is a happy ending – for a death-fic. :) In between writing original pieces, Dragon Age is such an inspiration. Which is great, because sometimes I get stuck in my own worlds. It's nice to play in someone else's for a bit. I know some people have an aversion to the dwarves (lolwut?) but I don't. I was pleasantly stoked when I first played the Dwarf Origins. Aeducan's story is amazing. Unfortunately, but fortunately for me, my first Princess Aeducan had a fatal streak within her and she did not want to linger after the Blight. ;) I took my character and kind of ran with it. I also know some people do not like the idea of Alistair being with Aeducan (double lolwut?) All I can say is, I do. I know others do too. So this is for me and those other readers. I hope you all enjoyed. See you on the flip-side!
> 
> C. Reed

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author's note:** Not a death fiction, but still pretty close. I don't like writing those, but this idea would not leave me alone! :) There are two more pieces to come. I don't know, I like the idea of Princess Aeducan, and I like the idea of her being in a romance with Alistair. It's so tragic and, yet, these two have so much in common that I just want them to be happy. There needs to be moar Alistair/Aeducan!! :P Hope you all enjoyed. Oh also, just so you know: Bilchka (written in our Latin alphabet) is Russian for “little squirrel.” It is an endearment, a pet name one gives their sweetheart. :P
> 
> C. Reed


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